周昕

在這個以瘦為美的年代，“胖”成了女孩們唯恐避之不及的字眼。而這個字也伴隨我走過了四十多年的人生歷程。在這場與“胖”的較量中，我沒能獲勝，但“胖”卻沒有阻礙我成為人生贏家。誰說胖子就沒有春天呢？

"OK，" I said to my daughter as she bent over her bowl of rice. "What's going on with you and J.？"

"She's bossy，" Lucy complained. "She's turning everyone against me，" Lucy muttered2）. "She's mean， she's bad at math， she's terrible at kickball3） and ... she's fat." "Excuse me，" I said， struggling for calm. "What did you just say？" "She is fat，" Lucy mumbled4） into her bowl. "We are going upstairs，" I said， my voice cold.

I'd spent the nine years since her birth getting ready for this day， the day we'd have to have the conversation about this dreaded5）， stinging6） word. I knew exactly what to say to the girl on the receiving end of the taunts7） and the teasing8）， but in all of my imaginings， it never once occurred to me that my daughter would be the one who used the F word. Fat.

I am six years old， in first grade， and my father is hoisting9）—that's really the only word for it—me up into the backseat of the family's Chevy Suburban10）. "She's solid. She weighs 65 pounds，" he's telling a friend. I am eight years old， sturdy11） bare legs dangling at the end of the examination table while my pediatrician12）， a woman with a soothing13） voice， and disconcertingly14） cool hands， tells my mom to stop packing me two sandwiches for lunch. And my mother， overweight herself， nods and says nothing.

How can anyone say no to food？ I'm beginning to recognize that there are people born with an "off" switch， people to whom food， even the most delicious， is simply fuel. Then there are people like me， who eat every bite and still want more. I have no off switch. Happy， sad， lonely， content—the one constant in my life is hunger.

I'm 15， five-foot-six， 145 pounds. My parents have shipped me off on a teen tour to Israel. The group is filled with mean girls. There are five girls named Jennifer with my group that summer. "Oh， not the fat Jennifer，" I hear one of my tour mates saying matter-of-factly15） to another.

I am incandescent16） with shame， knowing that fat is， by far， the worst thing you can be. Fat is lazy， fat is gross17）， fat is sloppy18） ... and， worst of all， fat is forever. I am fat—and， hence， undesirable， unlovable， a walking joke—for the rest of my life.

Then I'm 18， sitting in the dining hall across from the crew coach. I'd been a good rower in high school， good enough for Princeton to recruit me， but now I've gained the 15 pounds—one of my many bulimic19） freshmen classmates should have gained but didn't. "If you want to stay on the team，" the coach tells me gently， "you're going to have to lose a lot of weight."

The coach relegates20） me to the worst boat and never makes eye contact with me again. The next year， I quit the team and join the school newspaper. I find my place， my calling21）. On the page， nobody can tell that you're fat.

I am 33， and after two days of labor22） followed by an emergency C-section23）， the doctor places my newborn daughter in my arms. At eight pounds， 11 ounces， she's one of the biggest babies in the nursery. I'm far too embarrassed to ask my doctor the only thing I want to know： Will she be normal， or will she be like me？

Now， at 42， I've made as much peace as a plus-size woman can make with her body. In my career， my weight has never held me back24）. I've worked for national newspapers， written best-selling novels， had a book turned into a movie， co-written a TV show that made it on the air. I have a job I love， two smart， funny daughters， a rich， full life with wonderful friends and a man who loves me ... but I know that， when the world sees me， they don't see any of this. They see fat.

My daughter sat on her bed， and I sat beside her. "How would you feel if someone made fun of you for something that wasn't your fault？" I began. "She could stop eating so much，" Lucy mumbled， unwittingly mouthing the simple advice a thousand doctors and well-meaning friends and relatives have given overweight women for years.

"It's not always that easy，" I said. "Everyone's different in terms of how they treat food." Do I tell her I didn't cry when someone posted my picture and commented underneath it， "I'm sorry， but aren't chick-lit25） authors supposed to be pretty"？

Words are my tools. Stories are my job. And I have no idea what to say. So I say to my daughter， "I love you， and there is nothing you could ever do to make me not love you. But I'm disappointed in you right now. There are plenty of reasons for not liking someone. What she looks like isn't one of them."

Lucy nods， tears on her cheeks. "I won't say that again，" she tells me， and I pull her close， pressing my nose against her hair. So as we sit there together， I pray for her to be smart. I pray for her to be strong. I pray for her to find friends， work she loves， a partner who adores her， for her life to be easy， and for her to have the strength to handle it when it's not. And still， always， I pray that she will never struggle as I've struggled， that weight will never be her cross to bear. She may not be able to use the word in our home， but I can use it in my head. I pray that she will never get fat.

“好吧，”我對正在低頭吃米飯的女兒說，“你和J.怎么了？”

“她很橫?！?露西抱怨說。“她害得每個同學(xué)都針對我，” 她嘟囔著，“她很自私，數(shù)學(xué)不好，足球踢得很爛，而且……她很胖?！薄暗认?，”我強作鎮(zhèn)靜，“你剛才說什么？”“她很胖?！甭段饕贿叧燥堃贿吅卣f?！案疑蠘??！蔽依淅涞卣f。

終于得和女兒聊聊這個讓人害怕、聽著刺耳的字眼了，從她出生到今天，我已經(jīng)準(zhǔn)備了九年。對于遭受這種嘲諷和戲弄的女孩，我百分之百清楚該說些什么，但是我怎么也沒想到，我自己的女兒正是那個說F詞（胖）的人。

我六歲上小學(xué)一年級的時候，一次父親把我抬（真的只有“抬”這個字最合適）到我家雪佛蘭薩博班汽車的后座上，并對他的朋友說：“她長得很結(jié)實，有65磅重。”八歲時，我坐在體檢臺的一頭，晃悠著粗壯的光腿，聽到我的兒科醫(yī)生——一位聲音輕柔、雙手冰涼得令人不安的女士——告訴我母親，午飯便當(dāng)別給我?guī)蓚€三明治了，太多了。而我那本身體重就超重的母親點了點頭，什么也沒說。

誰又能對吃的說不呢？我漸漸明白，有的人生來嘴上就有道“閘”，食物，哪怕是最美味的食物對他們來說也不過是給身體提供能量的東西；可也有人像我一樣，吃得再多也不夠。我嘴上沒有那道“閘”。無論是高興還是傷心，孤單還是滿足，我的人生一直處于饑餓的狀態(tài)。

15歲時，我已經(jīng)有5英尺6英寸高，145磅重了。父母把我送去參加一個赴以色列的青少年游學(xué)團，這個團里有很多刻薄的女孩。那年夏天，我所在的小組有五個叫珍妮弗的女孩?！芭?，不是那個胖珍妮弗?！蔽衣牭揭粋€團員直言不諱地跟另一個這么說。

我羞憤難當(dāng)，覺得肥胖是到那時為止我人生中最糟糕的事。肥胖意味著懶惰，意味著惡心，意味著邋遢……最糟糕的是，肥胖會永遠(yuǎn)伴隨著我。我胖，所以我不受人歡迎，不招人待見，走到哪兒都被人笑話，余生都會這樣。

18歲那年，我在食堂吃飯，對面坐著劃艇隊的教練。我在高中時就已是一名出色的槳手了，因表現(xiàn)出眾被普林斯頓大學(xué)錄取。但如今，我體重增加了15磅，我那些患有貪食癥的大一同班新生本該變胖卻也長不了這么多肉。“你如果想繼續(xù)待在隊里，”教練溫和地說，“就必須減掉很多體重?！?/p>

教練把我“調(diào)”到最差的一艘劃艇上，然后再也沒和我有過眼神交流。一年后，我退出了劃艇隊，加入了校報。我找準(zhǔn)了自己的位置，找到了我的職業(yè)方向。在報紙上，沒人能看出來你是不是胖子。

33歲時，經(jīng)歷了兩天的分娩和隨后的緊急剖腹產(chǎn)，醫(yī)生讓我抱上了剛剛出生的女兒。她有8磅11盎司重，是育兒室里最重的嬰兒之一。我太過難為情，都沒有問醫(yī)生我唯一想問的那個問題：她會是個正常人還是會像我一樣胖？

如今，42歲的我已經(jīng)做到盡可能平和地看待自己大一號的身體。我的體重從來沒有阻礙我的職業(yè)發(fā)展。我為幾家全國性的報刊供稿，寫了許多暢銷小說，有一本書已被改編為電影，而且還與別人合寫了一部電視劇并成功播出。我有一份自己熱愛的工作，有兩個聰明有趣的女兒，生活充實富足，有許多非常棒的朋友，還有一個愛我的男人……但我知道，世人在看到我時，看不到這一切，他們只會看到我很胖。

露西坐在她的床上，我坐在她旁邊。 “如果有人取笑你，但取笑你的原因并不是你的錯，你會怎么想？” 我開始發(fā)話了?！八梢陨俪渣c?！?露西含糊地回答。她不經(jīng)意間說出的這句話正是多年來醫(yī)生們和好心的親朋好友都會給肥胖女性的簡單建議。

“這件事并不總是那么容易，”我說，“每個人對待食物的態(tài)度都各不相同?！痹?jīng)有人貼出我的照片并在下面評論說：“借問一句，雞仔文學(xué)的作者難道不該是美女嗎？”我要不要告訴女兒，我當(dāng)時并沒因此而哭泣？

語言是我的工具，講故事是我的工作，而我現(xiàn)在卻不知道該說些什么。于是我對女兒說：“我愛你，無論你做什么我都不會不愛你。但是我現(xiàn)在對你很失望。不喜歡一個人可以有許多原因，但外表一定不是其中一個?！?/p>

露西點點頭，臉上還掛著淚花。“我不會再說那樣的話了?！彼龑ξ艺f。我把她攬了過來，鼻子貼著她的頭發(fā)。我們一起坐在那里，我祈禱她將來成為一個聰明、堅強的女孩；祈禱她能交到朋友，找到喜歡的工作，擁有愛她的伴侶；祈禱她的人生旅途一帆風(fēng)順，祈禱她在遇到坎坷時也能夠有力量去處理。而且，如以往一般，我祈禱她永遠(yuǎn)不會像我曾經(jīng)那般掙扎，祈禱她的體重永遠(yuǎn)不會成為背上的十字架?；蛟S在家里她不能說這個字，但我可以在心里說。我祈禱她永遠(yuǎn)都不會變胖。

1. Jennifer Weiner： 珍妮弗·韋納（1970～），美國當(dāng)紅通俗作家，讀書期間即獲得普林斯頓大學(xué)美國詩人獎，之后為多家報紙、雜志（如《費城追查報》《柯羅波丹》《封面人物》等）撰寫專欄文章。她的小說《偷穿高跟鞋》被改編為同名電影。

2. mutter [?m?t?（r）] vt. 輕聲說話；小聲抱怨

3. kickball [?k?kb??l] n. 兒童足球游戲（美國兒童按棒球規(guī)則進行的球類運動）

4. mumble [?m?mbl] vt. 咕噥；含糊地說

5. dreaded [?dred?d] adj. 令人畏懼的，可怕的

6. stinging ['st????] adj. 尖刻的；刺人的；刺一樣的

7. taunt [t??nt] n. 嘲弄；奚落；譏諷

8. teasing ['ti?zi?] n. 戲弄

9. hoist [h??st] vt. 舉起；抬起

10. Chevy Suburban： 雪佛蘭薩博班（一款大型運動型多用途車）

11. sturdy [?st??di] adj. 強健的；結(jié)實的；強壯的

12. pediatrician [?pi?di??tr??n] n. 兒科醫(yī)師

13. soothing [?su????] adj. 慰藉的；使人寬心的

14. disconcertingly [?d?sk?n?s??t??li] adv. 令人不安地

15. matter-of-factly： 講求實際地；直接地；不動感情地；平靜地

16. incandescent [??nk?n?desnt] adj. 暴怒的；盛怒的

17. gross [ɡr??s] adj. 讓人惡心的；令人厭惡的

18. sloppy [?sl?pi] adj. 邋里邋遢的

19. bulimic [bu?l?m?k] adj. 患貪食癥的；食欲過盛的

20. relegate [?rel?ɡe?t] vt. 貶黜；把……降級；把……降格

21. calling [?k??l??] n. 行業(yè)；職業(yè)

22. labor [?le?b?（r）] n. 分娩

23. C-section ['si??sek??n] n. <口>剖腹產(chǎn)